


the higher, the fewer

by dickovny



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Joyce is thirsty as fuck y'all, i said what i said, is that tiny ass table being able to hold joyces body weight, people who eat peanut butter straight from the jar are wrong, pot brownies, the least realistic thing about this, title taken from the TNG episode where lwaxana takes alexander for a mud bath???, wildly different take on teenage!jopper from the other thing i'm writing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-18
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:33:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26532913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dickovny/pseuds/dickovny
Summary: Jonathan made a mistake.Jonathan made edibles to enjoy with his girlfriend.Jonathan got his mother and the Chief of Hawkins Police really goddamn high instead.
Relationships: Joyce Byers/Jim "Chief" Hopper
Comments: 8
Kudos: 47





	the higher, the fewer

**Author's Note:**

> I don't need the show to tell me that Jim Hopper fucking _loves_ The Boss. That just goes without saying. This exists in some nebulous place between season two and three. Y'know, before Jim gets yeeted to the gulag.
> 
> This really was just chilling in my drafts for a minor eternity before I even started writing Ouranos. Needed a break from the angst and thought I'd touch it up and release it into the wild. Enjoy.

Under most circumstances, a half-empty pan of brownies would not put the fear of God into a teenage boy. These were not most circumstances.

Tonight was going to be a good night. A _really_ good night. A VHS rental of _Blade Runner_ sat tucked in his backpack, Nancy was on her way over, and they had the whole house to themselves. Will was at Dustin’s, and his mother was ‘out with friends’, which obviously translated to ‘at Hopper’s’. Jonathan wasn’t an idiot - El was at Mike’s, which is why Will was at Dustin’s, which meant that no one was at Hopper’s. Which meant that clearly, Joyce was doing the same thing he was. Taking advantage of an empty house.

Not only were he and Nancy going to experience Ridley Scott’s delightfully futuristic neo-noir masterpiece in total seclusion - which would usually be enough to send Jonathan over the moon. But they were also going to get really, stupidly high.

James Finnegan, a sixteen-year old wrestling prodigy with the shoulders of Hercules and the I.Q. of Gilligan, accidentally removed his own pinky with a table saw in Jonathan’s sixth period woodshop class yesterday. After faking an aversion to blood, claiming it made him faint, Coach Calloway begrudgingly let him skip the rest of the day and go on home. Always the opportunist, Jonathan took advantage of the empty kitchen for the duration of the afternoon to make a batch of very _special_ brownies. And those brownies would serve as the cherry on top of tonight’s sci-fi sundae.

He reached into the fridge for a nice cold can of Pepsi and almost screamed.

The tinfoil wrapped pan, clearly labeled ‘JONATHAN’S. DO NOT EAT.’, was no longer hidden behind a three day-old meatloaf, but instead sat in plain view on the middle shelf, right next to the milk.

And it was open. And it was half-empty.

Oh. Oh shit. Oh shit _shit_ shit.

His brother ate a pot brownie. His sweet baby brother ate a fucking pot brownie, or like, three pot brownies. There was no way Jonathan was going to come out of this unscathed. Will was going to throw up or _die_ or something and it was all his fault. Every possible worst case scenario raced through his mind, all at once. 

But - 

Before leaving for school this morning, Jonathan had checked on his baked goods and they were still intact and ignored. And Will hadn’t come home yet. None of his stuff was here. He had gone straight to the Henderson’s like he said he would.

Relief washed over him, certain that he had not accidentally drugged the precious little goober into oblivion. This relief was short-lived. Because this only meant one thing. 

There was only one other person who had been in the house today.

He remembered now, a few nights ago, his mother perched on the kitchen counter. One of those times when she would pretend a ‘friend’ was on the phone. _Please_. He wasn’t an idiot. And he certainly wasn’t _blind_. He could see the way she smiled, the way she twirled the phone cord around her fingers. That ‘friend’ was a man, and it was obviously Hopper, but today that was beside the point. Because he remembered very distinctly hearing her chastise this ‘friend’ on the other end of the line for never having any edible food at his house. She had laughed and told him she’d just have to provide for herself next time. 

Sweat beaded on his brow, his heart rate doubling as he slammed Hop’s number into the dial pad and prayed. With any luck, he would catch them before it happened. Before his mother and the Chief of Hawkins Police polished off a half-pan of very potent pot brownies.

* * *

Joyce was famished. Between the speed with which she ate them and the swigs of Hop’s cheap shitty beer, she didn’t much taste the brownies at all. To her, they just registered as not great, maybe slightly off. Chalking it up to a lack of culinary aptitude on her son’s part, she shrugged it off and grabbed a second one.

Hop was such a hopeless fucking _bachelor._ The cabin was certainly better than she imagined the trailer had been - he at least had the dignity and sense to keep things livable while caring for a child. It gave him some semblance of accountability. But there was hardly ever any food of real substance in his fridge, just beer and frozen waffles and TV dinners. No wonder El was so damn skinny. Diane must have done all of the shopping when they were together. She’d have to take him for groceries at some point, really walk him through the basics. A pleasantly domestic daydream unfolded before her, the two of them pushing a cart through the frozen aisle and bickering about ice cream brands, and she couldn’t help but smile to herself.

“Hey, uh, Joyce? Your kid is on the phone.” Her reverie so rudely interrupted was now replaced by that sudden terror a mother feels when their child is looking for them. Hop must have seen the concern flicker across her gaze, rushing to reassure her. “Not the small one, don’t panic like that.” 

She breathed a tiny sigh of relief. But wait - why would Jonathan be calling her? And how on _earth_ did he know to call her here?

“He says he needs to talk to you, that it's really important, but not to freak out. Also not to be mad at him. And to stop eating? You know what, I’m just gonna hand him over.”

“Jonathan? How in the _hell_ did you know to call me here? What the - we’re gonna need to talk when I get home -”

“Mom. _MOM_ ,” Jonathan sounded _extremely_ stressed. “Look, I get it. You’re fu - seeing Chief Hopper. Neither of you are as subtle as you think you are. And it’s fine, whatever. Doesn’t matter. Good for you. Go for it.”

Really? The nerve of this kid. And did he almost say _fucking_? She started to interrupt him, to remind him exactly who he was talking to, but whatever this was must have been really important. Joyce couldn’t get a single word in edgewise.

“Listen! Just. Shut up for a second and listen! Did you eat the brownies?”

“Seriously?” She had never heard someone be so possessive of their baked goods. Like she didn’t feed him every single day of his life. “You’re calling me because of _brownies?_ ”

“Oh my _God,_ Mom. If you are eating the brownies please stop, right now. I cannot tell you how important it is that you _stop eating the brownies._ Right. Now.”

It took a little longer than she would have liked to admit, but it finally clicked. Joyce wasn’t born yesterday and had gotten up to her fair share of youthful hijinks. Cradling the phone with her shoulder, she wheeled around to see Jim shoving a second piece into his mouth, chasing it with a gulp of beer.

“Hop - dammit - put it down!” she hissed, flailing her arms to get his attention.

“Oh for fuck’s sake - is this about that diet again?” He rolled his eyes so hard she hoped they would get stuck. Worse than a teenage girl sometimes. “Give it a fucking _rest_.”

“I mean it, not another bite!” Realizing that her son was probably hearing the entirety of this dopey little back-and-forth, she covered the receiver with her hand. “They’re _special_ brownies. Get it?”

He stared down at the remainder of the brownie in his hand, sniffed it, and laughed.

“Mom - you still there?” Jonathan crackled from the other end of the line. “... you ate them didn’t you?”

“Yeah. We did. Yep.” She was going to kill him. No, scratch that. Death would be a kindness. Jonathan was going to be grounded for the rest of eternity. “You realize you’re going to be in trouble _forever_ for this, right?”

“That’s great. I am fully prepared to cross that bridge when we get to it. How many?” The question, and his insistence on her answering, was not particularly comforting.

“I only had one and a half.” Jonathan whistled long and low. Now fully understanding their situation and the subject of the conversation, Jim sheepishly raised two fingers. “Hop had two. And a quarter.” At this, Jonathan _groaned._ “Why are you … is that _bad_?”

“Okay. No, it’s not _bad_ exactly. Just. It’s a lot. He’s a big guy, he’ll be fine. I think. Anyway - look. I understand that I am in a _lot_ of trouble here, but I think _you_ need to understand that _I_ understand that this is my fault. And I have already done a whole hell of a lot of legwork to fix this. I am going to personally pick Will up from the Hendersons’ later, and I have already insisted that, unless she wants you to bar my windows and lock my doors, Nancy is going to have a girls’ night with El. Instead of the wonderful date we had planned for ourselves.”

“Why?”

“Because … if I did my calculations correctly when I made those things, you are going to be very, _very_ stoned for probably, like, the entire night. Neither of you will be fit to drive _or_ to spend time around impressionable young children. Impressionable young children who, cross my heart, will never find out that their parents spent the night together. Alone. High.”

“... _oh._ ” As much as she wanted to throttle her son through the phone, he had a point. The boy had managed a truly fantastic amount of damage control in a short amount of time. On top of that, Teenage Joyce was not without sin, and thus should not be casting any stones at any one. 

And maybe, just _maybe_ , being high out of their fucking gourds for the next several hours with zero responsibilities between them might not be the worst thing in the world. “Alright. Fine. Don’t think you’re totally out of the woods here, Mister. We’re definitely going to talk about the other thing - the uh, _Jim_ thing - when I get home. But Jonathan?”  
  
“Yeah, Mom?”  
  
“Thanks. You’re a good kid. For the most part.” 

* * *

“When do you think these things’ll kick in, anyway?”

Jim was talking but try as she might, Joyce was having an unreasonably hard time listening. A truly fantastically hard time listening. Leaning against the refrigerator, a fresh beer in her hand, she had a clean line of sight to the couch. And wow, what a view.

“You know,” she said, picking at the label peeling off of the condensation-slicked bottle. A veritable mountain of a man, he sprawled on the sofa and in doing so, took up the _entire_ sofa. The short-sleeved shirt he wore was unbuttoned and hung open, exposing an extremely tight white-undershirt tucked into his jeans. The way his arms rested behind his head only served to accentuate their size, and she couldn’t seem to stop openly staring at the delightful way they barely fit through his damn sleeves. “I only want you to eat better because I’m like, _worried_ about you, y’know? I don’t think you need to lose weight or you're fat or anything. It’s not - it’s not a criticism.”

“What are you talking about?” He turned to look at her, which meant she needed to not be slack-jawed and drooling at the way his t-shirt clung to his chest _like that._ She tried to compose herself, to look somewhere else, _anywhere_ else and then realized, while she was ogling his thighs in those stupid fucking jeans, that he was talking again and she wasn’t listening and - oh. Fuck. She was _high._

“I’m sorry, Hop,” She stopped for a moment to giggle, and in trying to stifle it, snorted. Jonathan was right. These brownies were a little potent. “I think. I think it’s happening. I’m like, uh. I need to sit _down_ man.”

She considered sitting on the couch with him, but there wasn’t really any _couch_ left. Which would mean she’d have to crawl on top of him. Which would be really nice. Hell, ideal really - but it was definitely too early for that. 

The small plaid recliner would suffice. Maneuvering into it proved tricky, as her legs very suddenly didn’t seem to connect with the gravity of this Earth as she had ever previously experienced it.

“I am such an idiot. I am a _shit_ cop.” The haze was fully descending on her now, and it took her a minute to understand that he was indeed talking to her, and that general conversational etiquette dictated that she respond. _Shit Joyce, get it together._

“What do you mean?” Hopefully he would see that as her only requiring clarification, not as an admittance that she hadn’t listened to a damn thing he had said. He rubbed his jaw in thought, a habit that Joyce found consistently endearing.

“I mean - pot brownies. I just ate two pot brownies by accident, and I’m a fucking cop. How the fuck do I miss _brownies?_ Hell, I’ve done lines off of a stripper’s - ” Realizing the extent of what he was saying, he stopped abruptly.

“You’ve done _what_ off of a stripper’s _what?”_ She was not letting him get away with this.

“What, are you jealous?” He snapped at her. “You want me to do blow off your ass too, Joyce?”

For the first time in a long while, Joyce was totally speechless. She took a swig of beer in a gesture of annoyance, and then - well - the idea of her laying there, ass up, while he hovers over her with a fucking straw or rolled up bill or whatever - it was just so fucking _funny._ The beer spewed out of her mouth, and maybe a little bit out of her nose, as she erupted in giggles. Really goofy, full-bodied cackling that she had zero hope of containing. Apparently it was also contagious, because now _he_ was laughing too. Tonight was going to be a hell of a thing.

* * *

“I’m so goddamn _hungry_ all of a sudden,” he grumbled from the kitchen, rustling through the pantry like a bear in a camper.

There was this really cool thing happening with the way the light came in through the window as the sun set, and the floor was the _best_ way to see it. All of the dust motes spun, illuminated beautifully, and Joyce lay sprawled in the middle of the living area transfixed. She had to roll onto her side to see into the kitchen where he stood, offended by what she saw.

“Are you gonna eat just peanut butter? By itself? Right out of the jar?”

“You want another beer?” She nodded in agreement and he grabbed two bottles along with the peanut butter, jumbling them awkwardly in his fists. Leaning his back against the sofa, he joined her on the floor, Joyce sitting up next to him. “And what, exactly, is so wrong with peanut butter?”

“Nothing. I mean, _on stuff._ Not just by itself and _oh my god,_ you’re really just gonna do it aren’t you?” In spite of her scornful gaze, he dipped a spoon into the jar and deftly scooped out a generous tablespoon. “You’re a _monster_.”

“What? It’s a clean spoon. It’s a new jar. This is _my_ house and _my_ peanut butter, and I don’t have to justify my actions to you,” He looked her in the eyes and tauntingly waved the spoon in front of her face. “You’re just jealous.”

“I’ll show you jealous, you ass,” she huffed and then lunged forward, taking the spoon into her mouth. It hadn’t occurred to her in the moment how it would look or _feel_ , making direct eye contact with him as she sucked the peanut butter off of the spoon. Her intention was - well. Fuck. She was high as shit. Joyce didn’t really have intentions or impulse control right now. But now that she was doing it - it was uh. Rather explicit. And she didn’t really mind.

He was stunned into silence, mouth open as she bored into him with her eyes. It was fun, making him sweat, watching the little twitch in his eyebrow. Hearing the sharp intake of his breath as she let the spoon slip out of her lips with a small wet pop. With no small satisfaction, she was pretty sure she saw him shift in his seat, readjusting the crotch of his jeans. Nice job, Joyce. Still got it.

“Uh. Holy _shit,_ Joyce.” He stared into the jar, beyond flummoxed. “I’m. What. What the _fuck?”_

When he looked up at her, his expression was so shell-shocked and totally _in love_ that she started to laugh again. And so did he. Jesus, they were _way_ too stoned.

“Do you want to go outside? I really need some air. And also a cigarette. A whole pack of cigarettes.”

* * *

“When the _fuck_ did those woods get so creepy, Hop? Oh my god.” 

They had sat outside for about ten minutes, gazing into the trees as the stars began to blink into view. But the dark that settled around them was not in anyway pleasant - it was threatening and vague. Joyce broke first, nudging him in the ribs and pointing out just how _spooked_ she felt. How the woods seemed ominous and alive. It was only a matter of seconds before they were crashing back inside, breathless and jittery. Like a pair of kids rushing up the basement steps, away from some imaginary _other_ that tickled the backs of their necks the whole way up, laughing to stop from screaming.

“Well, it _could_ be the weed,” he groaned as he settled his frame onto the well-worn sofa, patting the space next to him for Joyce to do the same. “Or, the woods got so damn creepy once we found out that you know, monsters are _real_ and shit.”

She hadn’t considered that. They never really talked about it all. All of the blood and the screaming and the constant thrum of fear. The only way they tried to cope was pushing forward. But how do you do it? How do you go to work everyday and stock shelves and process public intoxications and watch fucking television when you _know_ that there are dimensions right next to yours, filled to the brim with unspeakable horrors?

The silence that filtered in from the woods outside was a tad too much for Joyce to bear right now, and she meandered to the record player, starting up whatever Jim had listened to last. Horns shifted into a slight drum roll, full band kicking in. And … was that "Tenth Avenue Freeze-Out?" She smiled in spite of herself.

“Educating the kid, are you?“ The thought of the surly-faced preteen, seriously studying the sounds of Springsteen erupting from this tiny record player in this drafty wooden cabin, as if the lyrics would somehow clarify for her the entire human condition - it was both hilarious and somewhat touching.

“Gotta teach the girl about The Boss, you know?” He paused for a moment, shifting his tone to a more solemn place. “How are you doing all of this anyway?”  
  
“All of what?” She sat on the couch next to him, in what little space there was, her thigh fitted next to his ever-so-snug.

“This _shit,”_ he gestured broadly with his hands. “All of this fucking _blood_ and death and fucking chaos! I’ve - I’ve been to ‘Nam, I was _in the shit,_ Joyce. I was a cop in New York. I have seen my fair share of absolute fucking nightmares. I have seen people blown to fucking pieces and people hurt other people and I have hit _bottom_. I mean real, real dark places. Dark shit.” The drugs had made him much more expressive than usual, but at the expense of clarity of thought. He grew frustrated with himself when he saw that she wasn’t following his line of thinking. Maybe that’s why it sounded so harsh when he finally got to his point.

“I’m barely handling all of this - and you? You’re just somebody’s fucking mom.”

“Oh, fuck you! _Somebody’s fucking mom?”_ She started to rise from the couch when he shot out a hand and gently grabbed her wrist, pulling her back down haphazardly.

“Look - No - I meant it as a compliment, okay?”

“How on Earth - “ Her tirade was preempted by his hands on her shoulders, turning her to face him. The look on his big, dumb face was so sincere that it disarmed her entirely.

“Look! I’m - what I’m trying to say is that I’m barely hanging in there on a _good_ day. And I’ve had _years_ to harden me to things. But you? You’re keeping it together so goddamn well, and I can’t begin to understand how you’re doing this. You get your kids up every morning and make sure they go to school and they eat and you go to work and hell - you take care of everything by yourself. Alone! I can barely take care of _me._ ”

At this, she chuckled. He could be so dense and so stupidly self-deprecating sometimes. It had to come from somewhere - all of this vague directionless self-hatred. When they were young he had been so cocky. They both had. The sort of idiot teenagers who thought that nothing would ever happen to them - that they could do whatever they wanted and they would be young forever. The cabin was chilly in the evenings and she shivered, prompting him to drape a blanket over her shoulders.

“Why did you laugh?” He asked her so tenderly and quietly that her heart ached a little.

“You act like you’re failing all the time. It’s stupid.” Leaning into his chest, he settled his arm around her, letting it hang heavily. The sensations were so pleasantly magnified by the high that she almost got lost in them. The scratchy warmth of the blanket against her neck, the weight of his arm, the way his chest rose and fell as he breathed. She could have lived there, in this moment, forever.

“Have you seen my life? How am I _not_ failing?”

“I don’t know, you’ve helped save this town and maybe the _world_ a couple of times. Saved my kid. Saved El. And that’s a big one, raising her? Teenage girls are _scary_. I would know, I was one." He softened, seemingly conceding her point.

“And you know,” she whispered now, as if the admission was too much. “You have _me._ I don’t think you’re failing too hard on that front.” 

* * *

Somehow they ended up on the floor again. The couch was too uncomfortable with both of them on it. And you know, the floor was just _better_ when high. Everything looked cooler.

Joyce had taken her pants off because they were just entirely too constricting. So she sat cross-legged, in only her t-shirt and a giant flannel of Jim’s, eating peanut butter because now _she_ was starving. But at least she was using crackers. She had standards.

They hadn’t spoken in at least ten minutes, comfortably sliding into the introspection portion of the high. Bruce continued to warble softly in the background as Joyce chewed noisily and contentedly.

“Did you mean what you said earlier?”

The question startled her - she looked up to see him lying on the floor, brows furrowed in consternation as he poked at his stomach derisively. “What did I say earlier?”

“No, you know what? It’s dumb. Don’t worry about it,” he sighed, massaging his temples. She thought about the young idiot boy he had been, and all of the new lines that crossed his face. All of the stories they reflected, all of the things she had missed. Maybe she would get to hear all of those stories one day. “God, I love this song.”

“Don’t deflect,” It took her a moment to swallow the peanut butter in her mouth before she could continue. “What did I say earlier?”

“You were uh, saying that you thought I didn’t need to lose weight. That I just need to eat better or something. I don’t know. It’s stupid. Forget it.”

Her synapses finally connected through the haze. He was asking if he was _fat_. Or something.

“Are you asking me if I think you look good? Because I definitely think you look good. You look like … really good.” She wished that the brain fog allowed her to be more communicative, but this was the best he was going to get from her under the circumstances. “Like. Okay, so. When we were kids you were _tall_ but now you’re _big?_ If that makes sense. You - you use your whole body. You have _presence._ It’s like kinda threatening and also comforting, which is really hot somehow. And you used to be pretty but now you’re like serious and grumbly and rough.”

A grin crept across his face despite his best attempts to squash it back down. And - was he _blushing?_ Joyce found it thoroughly endearing.

“More than that - I think,” This was something Joyce had wanted to express for a while now, and it seemed like the appropriate time to bring it up. “I think we like each other now more than we did then. I think we’re more _right_ for each other now.”

“How do you figure?”

“I was just this angry fiery little ball of teen angst bullshit and you were this - well. You were cocky and sure of yourself and you were kind of a horndog. Always chasing some cute little cheerleader or something. We both needed to grow up.” Was that harsh? Now that she said it outloud it felt harsh. It was meant to be a compliment, to tell him how much he had grown. Instead she just made it sound like she used to hate him. Maybe she should put peanut butter on her foot too, since she was so determined to cram it in her mouth.

“Goddamn, Joyce,” he angrily spat the words out. “You weren’t just short and angry, you were fucking _blind_ too.” He rose quickly, gruffly striding to the kitchen. Jim didn’t _need_ anything, apparently it was just a bid to get away from her. The second he got there he stood dumbfounded, before circling in frustration and settling for leaning on the counter, hands shoved in his pants pockets like a sour child.

“I was chasing skirts all the time because - well. I needed the distraction. I couldn’t have what I wanted so I tried to - I don’t know. I thought maybe if I could get just the right girl then I wouldn’t have to think about you anymore. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt so goddamn bad.”

It was difficult to get up as quickly as she wanted to - she was still pretty stoned and her legs kept refusing to act normal. But she managed to make it to the kitchen, and threw herself into his arms. Frozen in surprise, he was slow to respond, standing stiffly before wrapping her up in a hug.

“You’re a doofus, Hop,” she muttered into his chest. “A big, dumb doofus. But I’m an even _bigger_ dumber idiot. And this just proves my point. We needed to grow up. We did grow up.”

“Yeah, we really did grow up,” His hands came to rest on her ass, comically squeezing it. It was the exact sort of Jim Hopper levity and tomfoolery they needed to lighten the mood, and Joyce snorted with laughter as she wriggled against him.

“Speaking of growing up,” her voice came out muffled against his chest. “I’m not too worn out for you?”

“That’s stupid. You’re stupid. And you know what? This is probably stupid, too,” he grumbled, before placing both hands firmly around her hips and hoisting her into the air, grunting with the effort. Instinctively, she shrieked happily, wrapping her legs around his waist and her arms around his shoulders. He took several unsteady steps toward the little dining table, depositing her unceremoniously on its edge.

“You’re beautiful and perfect,” he dragged his lips against her jaw and her whole body shivered, a wave of goosebumps erupting across her arms. She wondered to herself when he got to be such a smooth flirt. “And also really goddamn light, thank God, because I totally could’ve thrown my back out with that move just now and we both know it.”

“You’re so much hotter when you don’t talk, Hop,” she teased, reaching for the hem of her shirt and dragging it over her head, fingers maneuvering next for his belt buckle. “Take off your fucking pants.”

It was sloppy and uncoordinated and perfect - the way he spit in his hand to wet her first, not even stopping to take off her underwear, settling for shoving them unceremoniously to the side. The way his beard kept scratching at the side of her neck as he lavished the side of her face with open-mouthed kisses. She clung to him with every limb, scrabbling for purchase against his wide chest, nails digging into his arms. The music played in her head, Bruce crooning about strapping her hands cross his engines. She couldn’t tell where his sweat ended and hers began, soaking the undershirt he hadn’t bothered to remove. The table creaked in protest, squealing against the floor with each thrust, Joyce genuinely fearing that it might give out at any time.

It was the kind of sex that left her winded and grinning and struggling to make eye-contact afterward. As they lay afterward on his makeshift bed, he idly dragged a finger along the red line across the back of her thighs, left there by the edge of the table. 

A bone-deep exhaustion had spread through her, and she struggled to keep her eyes open.

“What are you thinking about?”

“How bad my back is gonna hurt in the morning from sleeping here like this,” he groused. Joyce summoned the last of her remaining energy and lightly swatted him. “I’m kidding. I’m just … I dunno. I love you. You’re my best friend and I - everything is so uncertain and crazy but there’s _you_ and that somehow makes it all make sense. Maybe it’s the weed talking. Or the sex.”

“No,” she mumbles, snuggling closer to him. “Makes perfect sense. You and me. We make sense.”

He was right, she thought to herself as she drifted out of consciousness. They made sense. And her back was going to hurt so bad tomorrow.

But it was worth it, in the end.


End file.
